forget arguments over water in the
basement or whose cat scratched our screens. We agree a
limit exists though it's hard to
pinpoint. Of course its location changes: the lake lies
further away and noise from cars
and trucks breaks through any calm, any silence I find.
We compare new and old: no
doves and swans, just a rooster crowing without regard to
the day--started without his
bidding--which he cannot call back. A cricket calls from
the front hall closet. There is a
field here but no other sense of possibility. It is never
evening, just night and day and
night. The radio tower's red lights blink in the front
yard long enough I realize it's no
signal, it's not even a sign. Maybe this is the sign:
the moon stays in the sky into the
morning, the moon must love the world; I can't imagine
loving anything so much.
